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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

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Chap Copyright No 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



THE SONG OF STRADELLA 

AND OTHER SONGS 



THE SONG OF 

traliella 

AND OTHER SONGS 

Written by Anna Gannon 




PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 

1899 



Copyright, 1898 

BY 

J. B. LippiNcoTT Company 




TWO COPIES RECEIVED* 



TO THE 
DEAR AND HONORED MEMORY 

OF 

THOMAS GANNON 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A Dream of Shakespeare's Women 9 

Stradella 15 

A Late Sunrise 28 

To the Hawthorn 28 

Time's Traces 30 

France la Belle 31 

Since Last Sweet Spring 31 

The Magnolia Tree 32 

"From Whence No Traveller Returns" 33 

The First Thoughts of Faust 34 

Marguerite at the Spinning-Wheel 35 

On Passing the Irish Coast 36 

London 37 

The Memory of My Own Land 38 

The Poet Wyatt to Anne Boleyn 39 

In Memoriam 40 

A Song 41 

When the Hawthorn Blooms Again 42 

Dreams 43 

The Season of Song . 44 

A Voice 45 

A Song of Rest 46 

To the Mask and Wig Club 46 

The Wedding-Day 47 

A Voyage 49 

A Modern Saint 50 

" Auf Wiedersehen" . 50 

A Song of Rizzio to Mary Stuart 51 

7 



Contents 

PAGE 

Jane Austen's Garden 52 

A Seaport Town 53 

Content 53 

Sonnet to the March Winds 54 

Of an Eloquent Preacher 55 

Ellen Terry 56 

The Spring Sea 57 

Romney's Wife 57 

The April Waves 59 

A Portrait 60 

The Early Lost 61 

The Harp 62 

Song to the Lost 63 

A Promise 64 

The Poet in Despair to the Muse 65 

Loss 66 

The Fourth of July in Paris 67 

The Valley of the Shadow 68 

Bassanio : William Terriss 69 

General Custer 69 

Of Mourning 72 

Villa des Acacias, in the Bois (Paris) 73 

After Loss 74 

A Little While 75 

The Enchanted Land 76 

The True 77 

On a Portrait of Lincoln 78 

The Sacred Promise 78 

A Poet's Sacrifice 79 

A Row on the Avon 82 

Stratford 85 



A DREAM OF SHAKESPEARE'S 
WOMEN 

[As read by Miss Julia Marlowe] 

In fair Virginia's heart there is a wood 

Where still the deer in careless freedom roams ; 
All night the owl, from 'neath his friar hood, 
Daunts with grim stare, the ever-wanton 
gnomes. 
A sombre scene by night, but when bright dawn 

With mellow sunshine fills this garden spot. 
When sweet birds sing, and leaps the gentle 
fawn. 
It seems, on earth, a fairer place is not. 
'Twas here a child of song had chanced to stray ; 
All night he'd wooed his worshipped Muse in 
vain. 
And now the beauty that around him lay 

Gladdened his heart and soothed his tired 
brain. 
" Oh, not in Arden was a lovelier wood," 

He said, " And it would truly perfect be. 
If but Orlando's fair one only could 

Come forth and give me her sweet company !" 
His tired head upon the moss was laid. 
But ere his flagging senses sunk to rest 
9 



A Dream of Shakespeare's Women 

He started. At his side a sweet voice said, 
** What though my woman's form like man be 
dressed ; 
Beneath this rough attire there is a heart 

That would be brave — that would not weak- 
ness know. 
But, like these garments, play a manly part — 
1 would that I a bolder front could show." 
'Tis Rosalind, " in youth's sweet prime," that 
stands 
Beneath a tree on which is carved her name. 
And as she reads, she thinks of him whose hands 
Have cut the oak, his constant thought to 
frame. 
A breath of the " sweet South" now filled the 
wood 
And all the grass took on a golden green. 
As o'er it came, of visions the most fair. 

Young Juliet. Not all the jewelled sheen 
That clasped her robes or bound her dusky hair 
Could dim the brightness of her eyes, that yet 
Excelled them. From their depths the soul so 
rare 
Shone the more brightly, that 'twas richly set. 
And when she spoke, she told a tale divine. 
Of moonlight nights beneath Italian skies 
When she, the last of Capulet's great line. 
Had answered Romeo's impassioned sighs. 

lO 



A Dream of Shakespeare's Women 

And when the music of her rich low voice 

Had ceased, behold ! appeared a laughing face, 
A face to make your very heart rejoice. 

Had not a mocking smile half-marred its grace. 
'Tis Beatrice, ** in fancy free," who rails 

At all that is most dear to woman's heart. 
Whose wit, ** all mirth, no matter," never fails 

To give to satire's edge some playful part. 
But hark! this sad sw^eet strain that fills the 
wood. 

Is it an earthly presence comes this way ? 
Ophelia ! thou wert far too soft — too good ! 

Oh, graceful child of Nature ! Rose of May ! 
Yet rose that faded in the morning light. 

Thou singst thine own sad requiem, in truth. 
Since o'er thy mind there fell the cruel blight 

That brought thee death in life and age in 
youth. 
A spirit, yet on earth, she passed along — 

The glad birds ceased their tuneful notes — to 
brood. 
The sunshine wavered and the brooklet's song 

Was hushed a moment in the silent wood. 

But now the birds are challenged from their rest. 
The sound of silv'ry flute and harp floats by — 

The air holds fragrant odors of the East, 
All-glorious Cleopatra draweth nigh ; 



A Dream of Shakespeare's Women 

And as she spoke, long ages rolled away. 

The forest dimmed, then faded from her sight ; 
She lived again on fateful Actium-day, 

And heard death-cries from oiF her rocky 
height. 
Once more she stood within the camp to try 

Her old allurements on her Roman slave — 
" And yet, again, I see thee, Antony, 

Leave honor — all — and follow me, my brave !" 
So speaks the " rare Egyptian," in whose smile 

There is a nation's fall. Ah, cruel queen ! 
'Twas well to call thee " serpent of old Nile," 

For, serpent-like, into the hearts of men 
Thou glidest, and thy all destroying path 

Left poison in its trail. Yet not content 
With heart alone. Thy fascination hath 

Apower to seize the soul. Oh! wast thou sent 
To bring fair Egypt to the lowly dust ; 

To give to tyrant hands those fields of gold. 
The glory of long centuries — all lost — 

With conquered nations is thy story told. 
The dread enchantress gone, the tainted air 

Resounds with cries of mingled rage and hate. 
And witches with wild eyes and matted hair 

Possess the wood, and chanting mock at Fate. 
And closely in their train comes one accursed. 

Who shrinks in horror from her own white 
hand, 

12 



A Dream of Shakespeare's Women 

Whose eyes see but one sight — a crime, the worst 
That e'er Ambition knew or Treach'ry 
planned. 
Yet not Orestes in the Furies' power 

And not Prometheus on his high rock chained 
Knew all the torments that each dragging hour 
Brought to this life while wretched life re- 
mained. 
But now, as oft, when ignorance supreme 

Too long has held its unabated sway. 
Upon the dark there comes a light whose gleam 
Shall pierce the clouds and scatter night away. 
Thus in the troubled wood shone Portia's face. 
And thus shall Learning's ray still conquer 
night ; 
For, as the " mind glowed 'neath each lovely 
grace," 
So shall expand all good in reason's light. 
And thus the poet mused, while Portia stood. 
In cap and gown, as though for justice still 
She would have asked. Here, in the silent wood. 
She might have spoken, but a voice, so shrill. 
So loud, broke out that e'en the ** murm'ring 
brook" 
For very shame was quiet. On near view 
The owner of that voice had not the look 

A shrew should have, for this was Kate, " the 
shrew, 

13 



A Dream of Shakespeare's Women 

And Kate, the curst," that evermore did scold ; 

Till, as she nearer came, the poet tried 
To find a refuge elsewhere, for, though bold. 

He now felt timid, but the maiden spied 
His effort at escape, and nearer strode. 

When, starting up, the poet looked about 
And nothing saw but the same lovely wood 

That in its smiling beauty seemed to flout 
Dreamers and dreams. But still he heard the 
sound, 

And, looking up, beheld a chatt'ring jay 
In the green boughs above. All else around 

Was silent. Over all the sunlight lay. 
And where the crystal waters caught the gleam 

They shone like rarest gems. In such a 
place. 
What wonder that the poet's vivid dream 

Seemed touched with something of the 
Master's grace ! 
" And did I only dream," perplexed, he thought, 

*' And heard I not sweet Rosalind's complaint } 
Or Juliet's confession ? Was there naught 

But silence here ? Alone — did Mem'ry paint 
The forms that lately seemed to move and speak ? 

Yet shall they live till Time has passed away ; 
And while from Time an added charm they 
take. 

Yet shall they keep their magic of to-day. 
14 



A Dream of Shakespeare's Women 

Oh, thou who knew so well the human heart. 

Great Shakespeare ! It was thine to touch the 
chord 
That makes the world akin ! Yet not of Art 

So much as Nature hadst thou. At thy word 
Came Virtues, Graces, Loves, with flying feet." 

But now the length'ning shadows on the grass 
Aroused the poet from his rev'rie sweet ; 

And thus, reluctantly, he left the place 
That in the closing twilight seemed so fair. 

As though of tired earth it had no part. 
As though the breath of Eden lingered where 

The woodland sleeps in fair Virginia's heart. 



STRADELLA 

'TwAS long ago, and far away in Rome, 

There, 'neath her hills, a cow'ring hamlet 
lay : 
Still in the shadow of St. Peter's dome. 

Yet from her message ever far away. 
For dark the lives of those that dwelt therein ; 

Nor faith nor virtue in that hamlet thrived. 
And unto them are writ black deeds of sin. 

'Twas here the very prince of ruffians lived 
That were of Italy the scourge and shame. 

Long feared as bandit of the clouded hills, 
15 



Stradella 

Romarcus bore a deeper, lurid fame 

As cold assassin ! His the name that thrills 
The peasant heart with horror, and the cheek 

Of Roman manhood still has paler grown 
If, on belated journey, should awake 

Some passing thought of him. For ne'er was 
known 
The time, nor place, nor piteous circumstance 

That stayed Romarcus. In his den, alone. 
He sat one night, all idly watching dance 

High shadows from his flick'ring fire. None 
Might guess the thoughts of that half-savage 
brain. 

Nor whither travelled back his memory. 
Light on the thatched roof fell the springtide 
rain — 

And springtide hath her witchcraft. Well 
't may be 
The reason why, when lulled by gentle sound 

Of raindrops, as Romarcus dozed in sleep 
He writhed once in agony profound. 

He woke, and felt as he had drunken deep 
Of bitter, bitter potion. What the thought. 

That, all alone, unseen of ribald band. 
Had thus a coward of Romarcus wrought? 

Yet not with curses woke he, tho' his hand 
Cuffed the great hound that hastened to his knee. 

But sudden strode to where a flagon stood 
i6 



Stradella 

And quafFed the burning brandy long and free. 

Then, as before, he heard thro' the deep wood 
The sounds of storm, and then, as not before, 

Some alien sounds without. Upon his feet 
With ears alert and eyes alight, no more 

He sleeps — but roused to life of fever-heat. 
He listens — in his face a demon light. 

"It is a horse's hoof upon the ground !" 
He muses : " Well, a halting-place you've found, 

Don Traveller, where you may halt for aye. 
Nor e'er take up your journey." To the end 

Of the steep pathway draws the rider nigh. 
Over the chief's swift "Halt !" he laughs, " Ho, 
friend !" 

*' Prove it," the stern voice answers. " I am 
one," 
The rider speaks, "who hath an enemy. 

And none can be my friend but thou alone. 
I have brought gold, and freely give it thee." 

Darkly divining what the stranger bore 
Within his heart, Romarcus threw aside 

All weapons and flung open wide the door. 
There on the threshold stood, with mien of pride, 

A handsome stranger dressed in richest cloth, 
A man of rank, who straightway handed out 

A bag of gold. Romarcus, nothing loath. 
Accepting in grim silence. In some doubt. 

The stranger paused a moment, then began : 
17 



Stradella 

" You shall have double when the deed is done." 

Romarcus answering : " Who is the man ?" 
" The man 's Stradella, as a singer known ; 

His tall form ever in rich black is dressed. 
His step is quick and light, his head held high, 

And many medals wears he on his breast " 

" Enough," broke in Romarcus; "Where shall I 

Await him — when and where?" The other 
spoke, 
" To-morrow, Sunday, at the sunset hour. 

Be near St. Peter's doors at that last stroke 
That tolls the vesper o'er. You might e'en 
cower. 

Dressed as a beggar, at Cathedral gate. 
And gain a fuller view of all who come 

Without. Stradella will perhaps be late 
To leave the church, and as he turns toward 
home 

Shadow him close, and when in darkened place 
And well away from crowds — you have the rest !" 

An ugly smile gleaned in Romarcus' face. 
" You have the situation well in hand ; 

Your plans lack naught but valor, do they, 
sir?" 
The wily stranger answered, calm and bland, 

'* Your hand, Romarcus, never known to err. 
Defying all detection, shall save mine 

The trouble ; but Stradella, knowing me 
i8 



Stradella 

And all who know my — hatred — would opine 

My business in his mere vicinity. 
If evil followed. But no coward I, 

And I am desperate, Romarcus, too. 
And long enough have I stood idly by 

And seen this man — still, what is this to you?" 
For, as he spoke, Romarcus' gaze had strayed 

Unto the stranger's belt, and lingered where 
A bright stiletto flashed, its carving made 

In strange device, and wrought with jewels rare. 
" 'Tis a fine piece of steel," Romarcus said. 

** I have a better that I carry here," 
The man replied, '^but this, 'tis said, was made 

For a De Medici — you may see where 
Their crest, a crown, hath not had time to fade. 

And here, our own, a hawk with wings out- 
spread." 
A while Romarcus with the bauble played. 

The stranger saw him restless, and quick said, 
** Keep you the dagger as a gift, my friend. 

And tell me 'twill be done to-morrow eve." 
Romarcus answered, " Yes, and let this end 

Our bargain." 

And the stranger took his leave. 
Then long and deep and dark Romarcus thought. 

Holding the bright stiletto in the gleam 
Of the swift dying fire, which yet caught 

And lit anew each flick'ring jewel's beam. 
19 



Stradella 

** One stroke of this," he muttered ; then to sleep 

He fell, a heavy stupor, not the rest 
Of slumber. All night long the storm raged deep. 
But ceased at morn. Then all the world lay 
dress't 
In smiles and sunbeams. The old streets of Rome 

Took on a radiance, and the very air 
Was sweet with April. Where the great church 
dome 
Kissed the blue clouds, the sunlight glittered 
there 
And glinted back, too dazzling to behold. 

And the half storm-drowned birds shot free 
their wings 
And sang, " The springtime's on us !" Young 
and old 
Reflected the calm joy glad weather brings. 
As tender morning turned to fuller noon. 

And the soft air was warmed to richer life, 
*' It might be May-day, or the glad young 
June," 
The people said, for all the land was rife 
With whispers of the summer. Soon it passed 

To afternoon, with cooler shadows. Then 
A still unearthly beauty seemed to rest 

Upon the city. 'Twas the hour when 
The bell for prayer might any moment ring 
The vesper of St. Peter's, where the throng 



Stradella 

Ever increased to hear their idol sing — 

Stradella — loved, aye worshipped, of them 
long 
And steadfastly. 

Stradella, ling'ring now 
By his wide opened windows, watched the 
day 
Fade into twilight, still pondering how 

The human heart still hungers. Tho' his 
way 
Thro' life might seem all starlit, yet 

Stradella sat alone, and, looking on 
The fairness of this April, vague regret 

Came to him with a memory long gone. 
Something akin to sorrow and to song 

Rushed on him thro' the beauty-laden hour. 
Bringing lost Aprils, with their joys so long 
Departed ; for, however life's full flower 
Blooms in the present, yet the heart of man 

Turns to life's early blossoms, hailing them 
The fairest of the bower. 'Twas so ran 

Stradella's thoughts. If it could be a dream — 
These years of triumph — and he back again ! 
Yea, all these golden honors lent of kings. 
These medals — stars — they hang like so much 
pain 
Upon his breast. The sight of them but 
brings 



Stradella 

The thought of all the years that perished while 
He strove to earn them. 

** Oh, thou days of truth. 
Of early inspiration ! Hope's first smile ! 

God, take Thou all, but bring my sweet, mad 
youth !" 
Then on the air came the first vesper bell. 

And then, as ever, did Stradella's heart 
Respond to that pure influence. " It is well," 
He thought, *' the present duty hath its part 
To check the soul's vain longing." Then he 
passed 
Out thro' the street with light, quick step and 
head 
Held high. Yet, whether 'twas the frail form 
dress'd 
In sombre black, or for his brow's pale shade. 
Or for that very longing written there. 

Still, in Stradella there was that which drew 
A loving pity e'en thro' homage. ** Where 

So greatly dowered withal ('twas felt), there, too. 
Must be a spirit greatly wrought and strung 

To painful tension ofttimes." When at last 
Stradella reached the church and stood among 

The singers in the loft, he had not cast 
E'en then the shadows from him. 

There was one 
Who had well marked him as he entered there, 

22 



Stradella 

Whose gaze that face and form had dwelt upon 

For one swift moment, then seemed lost in 
prayer. 
It was a beggar, with his forehead bound 

In rags that half concealed his withered face. 
He bent with years, and near him on the ground 

Long staff and bundle. Still, he bore no trace 
Of aught than some poor pilgrim at a shrine. 

Silent the church till now, when comes the train 
Of acolytes, then myriad lights that shine 

In softened splendor, and the first faint strain 
From the deep organ. When, as with one soul. 

That vast assembly rose or knelt or prayed. 
Still did the cow'ring beggar view the whole 

With cold indifference, tho' he essayed 
Compliance with each custom. Once, in truth. 

When first within the church, flashed on his 
brain. 
With sound of those old chants, some tho't of 
youth : 

A village church and childhood's days again. 
But swift he banished the strange thought and 
scorned 

The feeling it engendered. Soon the air 
Was full of odors from the incense burned 

And, silently, all heads were bowed in prayer. 
Then through the misty aisles a sweet sound stole. 

Of dim and distant music. Like a stream 
as 



Stradella 

That falls in mountain ways, whose w^aters roll 

In rippling quietude, some faint notes came 
From far above. And, trembling on its chords, 

A deeper tone vibrated, then it ceased. 
To rise again with sad impassioned words 

And sink again to stillness. Then it passed 
To higher rapture, for the lowlier prayer 

That pleaded Christ's compassion now grew 
strong. 
And higher, holier, grander thro' the air 
Floated the angel voice. 

** Tho' ages long. 
Thou One Almighty hath oar sorrows known, 
Thou wilt have mercy ! Christ and man, 
forbear ! 
Ah, pity, yet !" 

But, now, into the tone 
Glided strange elements of vague despair, 
A suddenness of terror that awoke 

Within the souls below an echoing fear. 
All save one beggar, who with dark, fierce look 
Turned with contempt upon a wretch that 
near 
Him stood, who held too long his labored 
breath 
And sighed aloud. 

Again the voice : 

*'Lord, hear ! 
24 



Stradella 

Thou wilt not leave me to eternal death !" 
" Death !" 'Twas the beggar's turn to falter. 
Where 
His hand had to his breast oft turned to clutch 
An object hidden there, that hand fell numb. 
Nor could he yet regain the will to touch 

The thing again — and even thought seemed 
dumb 
While still that voice, that voice that ever rose. 

In accents half divine, to Christ alone. 
Yet not alone the singer, but all those 

Who heard the song adored their God, and 
none 
So strange His works, that of the list'ning 
throng 
There is a beggar all unmanned — aye more, 
Undemoned ! Yet he would not from his ears 

Shut out that melody. But once before 
To-day, and that in last night's troubled sleep. 

Has the strange influence of some far past 
Come o'er him. He remembers now how deep 
His spirit writhed last night, when sleep had 
cast 
On him, in dreams, unwonted thought of days 

Of his far childhood — and a village green 
And young companions — of the gentler ways 
Of home. And how his waking tho't had 
been 
3 25 



Stradella 

To curse such thoughts and drown them deep 
in drink. 
And now, to-day, the old chants brought back 
first 
Unwished for thoughts. But still, he need not 
think. 
And would not, till that cry, impassioned, burst 
The armor of his dark, crime-laden soul. 

That, broken once, could not resist again 
The entrance of that plea for pity. All 

Stradella's life seemed hanging on that strain 
That called to Christ's sweet mercy. 

Dare the hand 
Still strike him r 

And Romarcus, in his heart. 
Hath wavered once, and then, with swift com- 
mand 
Of those unhallowed laws that formed a part 
Of his dark code of honor as a chief 

Of all assassins, to whom stalwart crime 
Alone is *' honor," still his old belief 
He strengthened in himself with : 

** Not this time. 
No, no, not this, some other, but not hiT/i P^ 
Upon the morrow morn, as soft it rose — 
The bright Italian morn — Stradella came 

Into the vine-crowned porch whose shadow 
throws 

26 



Stradella 

Its shelter o'er his villa. There he saw 

A bag of gold and, glittering thro' its knot, 
A rich stiletto. Still he stood, in awe 

At the strange sight, then, moving to the spot. 
He took the blade, and looking on its rim 
Beheld the ancient crest — De Medici — 
Another crest — of one who long had been 

His rival and his bitt'rest enemy ! 
Stradella felt the meaning of that gold 

And that stiletto left as warning there. 
But whose the hand that saved him ne'er was told. 

But when the rival from his servants took 
With falt'ring thanks the packet sealed, he 

clutched 
It, nerveless, 'till he stood alone, then broke 
The cords. There lay his bag of gold, un- 
touched. 
And there gleamed his stiletto. Nevermore 

In Rome was seen Stradella's enemy. 
Creeping, disguised, that night he left the shore 
Forever. 

And Stradella ? 

Ah, well ! He 
Flourished, the people's idol till the last. 

If ever came the dark thought unawares 
Of this strange incident, all doubts he cast 
Aside and smiled, '*I had some sweet one's 
prayers." 

27 



A LATE SUNRISE 

Sometimes at close of day bursts forth the sun 
In its full splendor, ev'ry cloud has flown 
Before its swift surprisal ; pale and long 
The hours dragged without it. All of song 
Has languished in its absence ; now 'tis here 
When the least dreamed of. And so may it fare 
With a whole life of hope deferred ; at last 
Upon the soul's dull pathway may be cast 
Some sweet revivifying warmth, as true 
As the late sunbeam, that so softly threw 
O'er a gray day its blessing, and the night 
Of phantom fear may fade in new-found light. 



TO THE HAWTHORN 

Could I recall but one day that has gone, 
I would not ask to have the dearest one ; 
For deeply might to-morrow's shadows lie 
Against the brightness of that time gone by. 
But if I could bring back one vanished day, 
Sweet Fancy ! bring me one from glowing May, 
And bonnie May in England ! Might it be, 
28 



To the Hawthorn 

That after endless leagues of changeless sea. 
The dear earth smiles for us in new delight ! 
Thus it may be, for when on my charmed sight 
Fell the fair picture of those hills and streams 
And fields all radiant with the hawthorn gleams. 
Then all my heart went Maying. Thro' the bloom 
Of tangled blossoms with their pure perfume. 
Re-lived for me the storied knights and maids 
That passed through all these olden hills and glades. 
Thro' woods like these went that frail flower- 
like queen 
Of saintly Arthur. These same skies have seen 
Bright forms that unto ages past belong ; 
Here burning brows have turned their fire to 

song — 
Song born of this same beauty ! What has been 
Is now become a part of this still scene. 
That, and the charm of springtime, ever young ; 
Such, that to think of it, my heart has sung 
Its praises, while some fancy brings to-day 
The early spring, the bonnie English May ! 



29 



TIME'S TRACES 

We daily in the mirror gaze. 

Not seeing how 
The hast'ning flight of wearing days 

Can touch the brow. 

We seem, to-day, as yesterday. 

To-morrow, too, shall see 
Us much the same. Time creeps away 

So stealthily ! 

And then we meet a friend some day 

Of long ago ; 
And wond'ring, in our hearts we say, 

" Have / changed too ?" 

But just as swift his eyes have told 

The truth, alas ! 
Our friend has sorrowed to behold 

That time can pass. 



30 



FRANCE LA BELLE ^ 

The hours on bright wings fly, 

France la Belle ! 
The southern nights drift by, 

France la Belle ! 
There rests upon thy brow 
A glowing rose-wreath now, 

France la Belle ! 

A fair and flowery wreath ! 

France la Belle ! 
Yet shines the steel beneath, 

France la Belle ! 
And down dream-haunted streets 
The drum's wild pulse still beats, 

France la Belle ! 



SINCE LAST SWEET SPRING 

Oh, dead year, dark year ! well that thou art past. 
That left the heart, the hope so desolate ! 
Oh, slowly passing time, whose iron weight 
Shall press upon the soul while life shall last ! 

* By permission of " The Quartier Latin." 
31 



Since Last Sweet Spring 

Yet, strange indeed, O tyrant Grief, thou hast 
A soft twin-sister. Sympathy, to wait 
Awhile — then lead us from the dungeon gate 
And loose the cords thou else would rivet fast. 
Leading with light that nevermore shall fail. 
Turns she the thought with her awak'ning breath 
To a fair morn when Mary knelt in tears 
Beside a vacant tomb till, starlike, pale 
But radiant, spoke the angel — not of death. 
But of New Life for all the endless years. 



THE MAGNOLIA TREE 

Richly purple and purely white 
On the leafless trees they grow; 

It is a strange and gladsome sight 
To watch the flowers blov/ 

Thro' a cold, bleak air o'er a frozen ground 

While the breath of Eden floats around ! 

For theirs is a dream of the Orient, 

Lemon and musk and myrrh. 
Is it a far-off message sent 

To this land of ours to stir 
Our thoughts to the joys of another time, 
A rich, new life in a heavenly clime ? 

32 



"FROM WHENCE NO TRAVELLER 
RETURNS" 

Up from the blackest night 

Ever comes morning : 
After the winter-blight. 

Spring all-adorning ! 
Unto the leafless bough. 

Verdure, as ever — 
All shall return. And thou — 

Thou to me — never ! 

To the wood, silent long. 

Stilling its yearning. 
Comes back an olden song; 

Blithe birds returning. 
Now to the brooklets flow 

Music, as ever — 
All shall return. And thou 

Thou to me — never ! 



33 



THE FIRST THOUGHTS OF FAUST 

Oh, happy heart ! 
I do not wish your life could join my own, 

Sunbeam thou art. 
Yet let me keep within the shade I've known. 

Oh, heart of gold ! 
Longing and fear commingle till I know 

Grief, new and old. 
That shall be mine the while I stay or go ! 

Oh, loving heart ! 
You could not lift my burden with your joy ; 

Sorrow would start 
In thy pure breast and all thy life destroy. 

No, happy heart ! 
I shall not listen what the longing says ; 

When we two part. 
Then joy and grief have gone their sep'rate 

ways ! 



34 



MARGUERITE AT THE SPINNING- 
WHEEL * 

To Madame Calve in " Faust" 

Ah, Margherita, cease ! 

I cannot look on thee 
As now, girt round with peace. 

All spirit-pure and free. 

Thou singest at the wheel. 

O passing moment, stay ! 
Let no new feeling steal 

One happy note away ! 

Uplifted song and heart. 

And eyes that seek the heaven — 

O Nature, void of art ! 
O Genias, sacred given ! 

Are these the wherewithal 
For aught but fairest ends ? 

Shall e'en the wrapped bud fall ? 
Is't thus that Heaven lends 

* By permission of " The Quartier Latin." 
35 



Marguerite at the Spinning- Wheel 

Her graces as a snare ? 

Cease, Songbird ! thy young faith 
And ardor, pure and rare. 

Foretell thy life, love, death ! 



ON PASSING THE IRISH COAST 

Not through the ocean's waste had my heart 
known 

A moment's sadness or a sinking thought 
Till thy dear hills arose, O strangely lone 

Of nations ! How the very winds have caught 
The sick cry of the ages ! Desolate ! 

It is the burden of thy seagulls' song ! 
The rocks re-echo till the dreary weight 

Of sorrow falls, then, sobbing deep and long. 
The waves rehearse thy ancient wrongs till I, 

Who never knew thee, I could weep. Oh, 
where 
Thy storied grandeur ? Where thy minstrelsy ? 

All lost? But, no ! Did I not dream the air 
Was full of mighty music ? 'Twas a hand 

Of wondrous force that smote those chords 
of might. 
And He that made shall yet attune this land 

Of latent harmonies to love and light. 
36 



LONDON 

At night I came to London town 
And saw where, darkly shadowed down 
Upon the Thames, Westminster lay. 
Such dreams were mine ! I never may 
Renounce their dim prophetic sway. 
And yet my spirit felt the frown 
Of London town. 



And when at last to rest laid down. 
To peopled dreams in London town. 
All thro' the night I felt the spell 
Of old Westminster's mighty bell ; 
O'er heart and brain its message fell— 
My spirit soared beyond the frown 
Of London town. 



** Oh, not thro' rest came their renown," 
The spirit spoke, in London town ; 
" The loved, the great that England brings 
To mingle with the dust of kings. 
For, ever. Fame her laurel brings 
To him who well would wear the crown 
In every town." 
37 



London 

When I awoke in London town 
And saw the sunlight shimmering down 
Upon that wondrous Thames, I caught 
Such hope divine as ne'er was wrought 
From warning word, or sermon taught— 
God's sunlight 'twas, despite the frown 
Of London town. 



THE MEMORY OF MY OWN LAND 

What tho' in other lands 

The days might lightly pass. 
As silv'ry as the sands 

Within Time's olden glass ? 
When all fulfilled as Hope planned. 

The spirit stood apart — 
The mem'ry of my own land 

Rose ever in my heart. 

In joy, in love, in awe. 

Loomed up before my eyes 
All dreaming Fancy saw 

Beneath the banished skies ! 
It was a passing pageant, and 

The soul still soared afar — 
The mem'ry of my own land 

Hung o'er me like a star. 
38 



THE POET WYATT TO ANNE 
BOLEYN 

Heart of my heart, I remember 
All I have sworn to forget. 

See ! on Love's flames a last ember 
Gloweth and kindleth yet ! 

Only the night shall behold it ; 
Starlight and song only know 

How deep the heartstrings enfold it- 
Joy of my life — and its woe ! 

'Twas not that my idle dreaming 

Compassed the maiden most fair; 
Nay ! wert thou marred past all seeming. 

Still would thy love be my prayer ! 
Heart of my heart, I remember 

All I have sworn to forget. 
See ! on Love's flames a last ember 

Gloweth and kindleth yet ! 



39 



IN MEMORIAM 

While a new sorrow holds, grief may be numb 
Or, of its own intensity, may die ; 
We bid a parting spirit rest for aye. 

Unknowing how in afterdays shall come 

New pangs from that old wound. Yet there 
are some 
May sadly think of death " 'Tis well," but I, 
Hearing thy name still mingled with the cry 

Of earth's unfortunates, cannot be dumb. 

A beggar asks for alms in thy dear name ; 

He once had asked in Christ's, but thou hadst 

been 
The gracious means wherewith a God had 
seen 
Full many a sad prayer answered. This thy 
fame ; 
"For deeds of love that now thou canst not 
screen. 
Time ! Let Love's incense all his memory 
frame !" 



40 



A SONG 

You have heard the wild-bird singing 

When spring was newly born. 
And with autumn's sadness ringing 

You have heard the wild-bird mourn ; 
And your voice, your voice has yet 
All the wild-bird's notes so sad, so sweet. 
Ah ! if I heard it again. 

Soft it would fall on my heart ! 
Swift on its silvery strain 

Sorrowing care should depart. 

Now that spring hath flown with gladness. 

And no longer wild-birds call, 
'Tis the autumn's reign of sadness — 

On the heart its shadows fall ; 
But your voice, your voice has yet 
For all care a charm so sad, so sweet. 
Ah ! if I heard it again. 

Soft it would fall on my heart ! 
Swift on its silvery strain 

Sorrowing care should depart. 



41 



WHEN THE HAWTHORN BLOOMS 

AGAIN 

No matter where the hearth is. 

The loving land of home. 
When first the spring awakens 

My spirit swift would roam 
Unto a land remembered — 

A dream all void of pain — 
And I would be in England 

When the hawthorn blooms again. 

For oh ! once more to wander 

The mystic-scented glades. 
Where old romance holds revel 

And legend haunts the shades ! 
Oh ! never care should find me. 

And all my song's glad strain 
Should be of " Bonny England 

When the hawthorn blooms again !" 



42 



DREAMS 

Come back, sweet dreams ! 
So long you leave me that the Future seems 
A poor, pale land, unbrightened by your gleams ; 

Come, then, dear dreams ! 

Life has such care ! 
How shall it be if no illusion share 
The burden with reality ? Despair 

Creeps in with care. 

But fancy's wings 
The longed-for message from the far land brings ! 
Of heart's delight this bird of morning sings. 

Then mounts her wings. 

Yet come, dear dreams ! 
I dare not be without you, since all seems 
The shadowland unbrightened by your gleams ; 

Come, then, sweet dreams ! 



43 



THE SEASON OF SONG 

Blame not the poets that they sing 

Forevermore of spring ! 

A new world 'wakes 

When the old one breaks 
Her last cold chain with mighty fling ; 

Oh ! to the dreamer's heart it seems 

That heaven nearer gleams ! 

While a sad season stayed, his cup 

With bitter dregs filled up. 

But now its gall 

Hath vanished — all ! 
A golden vintage he may sup. 

While but to live seems half divine — 

The very air is wine ! 

Then let them rave and let them sing 

Forevermore of spring ! 

It is the time 

Of nature's rhyme ; 
Old pathways, silent long, shall ring. 

And song unsought for, too, shall start 

Within the singer's heart. 



44 



A VOICE 

A VOICE that was beautiful spoke — 

Its words were so simple and true. 
The "halt" by the wayside awoke 

And took up his journey anew. 
The life that he deemed as well o'er. 

Now stirred in his bosom again ; 
The sorrow that stung him before 

Seemed now but the shadow of pain. 

A voice that was beautiful sang 

Of all that the heart longs to hear ; 
The glad music, echoing, rang 

Long, late in the listener's ear. 
Not dim or remote then, it seemed. 

The listener's longing desire ; 
He hoped where he once had but dreamed. 

And wrought where he dared to aspire. 



45 



A SONG OF REST 

T HEARD a song of rest so infinite 

That even thought was silenced, and a peace 
Fell on the spirit softer than the light 

Of quiet stars when dreary day shall cease. 

Who hath not drifted to that fairy shore ? 

Who hath not longed to find that isle so blest. 
Where hope shall cheat and fate betray no more. 

And all life's fever turn to dreamless rest ? 



TO THE MASK AND WIG CLUB 

The wiser heads of another day 
Decided that work, all work and no play. 

Would make but a dull boy of Jack ; 
And the folks of to-day all merrily say 

They have found a fair way to bring back 

To old heads the past, to young hearts the joys. 
That the blithe hour brings with the merry- 
souled boys. 
Whether young or old, little or big ; 
And if mem'ry be sad, why, the present is glad 
When the toast is "The gay Mask and Wig !" 
46 



THE WEDDING-DAY 

Once from a country inn I strayed. 
And saw, slow-pacing 'neath her shade, 
A woman old, yet in whose eye 
Youth's light perhaps might never die. 
For want of better else, I walked 
Beneath her trees, and soon we talked; 
The weather first, for old folks will 
Of beldam nature chatter still ; 
The crops, the harvest, and the rest 
Of country gossip, but no jest 
Of mine could summon up a smile. 
For she grew silent. In a while 
She turned to me with motion swift. 
That from her shoulders seemed to lift 
Some years of age, and suddenly 
She spoke with fervor, " Can it be 
As bad as now it seems ? I feel to-day 
That some one drains my life away ! 
Yet well I know 'tis truth that's meant. 
The truth ! no vain presentiment ! 
Oft I have known what 'twas to be 
Forewarned of ill that came to me. 
But this — you might not call it grief. 
And you may say 'tis past belief, 
47 



The Wedding-Day 

A selfish heart should call it so — 
Well, one's joy, aye, is other's woe. 
To-morrow brings me grief — no joy — 
'Twill see my hope, my life, my boy. 
Unto another wend his way. 
Alas ! 'tis Robin's wedding-day ! 

" Yes ! he and I were here alone. 

The others one by one all gone. 

His father, ah, so long ago. 

And some are wedded, some laid low. 

But with my Robin left, I knew 

All grief might still be battled through. 

Oh ! thro' the worst, when most bereft, 

I said, * I have my Robin left.' 

But now, but now, I see it all ; 

For me no more at even-fall 

To wait his coming, nor to hear 

The only voice that I hold dear. 

He leaves me ! Old, alone, forlorn. 

Yet must I strive to-morrow morn. 

Strive to be happy, bright, and gay — 

Alas ! 'tis Robin's wedding-day !" 



48 



A VOYAGE 

Can aught more peaceful be 
Than May-Day on the sea? 
The long still afternoons 
Drift by like old love tunes. 

Yes, 'tis a soft, sweet song — 
The waves that splash along! 
Yes, 'tis a siren sings. 
And happy thoughts she brings. 

Off where the water's blue 
Hath merged the sky's fair hue ; 
We strive in vain to see 
Where each hath ceased to be. 

Thro' days that have not passed 
A solitary mast. 
How oft to those still skies 
Our thoughts in prayer arise ! 



49 



A MODERN SAINT 

Was there a maiden like to you 
When long ago an artist drew 
A gentle Saint Cecilia ? Naught 
That his inspired brush has caught 
But might have been from you derived. 
Perhaps had you in his day lived. 
And sat his model, we had seen 
A rarer still, a statelier mien, 
A brow more spiritually fair 
Beneath the night-kissed parted hair ! 
Oh, Art unerring, quick to know. 
Had made the old-time canvas glow. 
While he, of insight swift and true. 
Had given all time his dream of you. 



"AUF WIEDERSEHEN" 

The strains of Wiedersehen are sweet- 
The glowing chords themselves repeat 

" We'll meet again !" 

Oh ! happy then ! 
50 



"Auf Wiedersehen" 

Surpassing smooth it glides along. 
As blithe as any wild-bird's song. 
'Tis hope's attempt (delusion fair !) 
To place again the perfume rare 
Upon the sinking flower of spring. 
For all in vain the echoes ring 

'* We'll meet again !" 

For oh ! till then ! 



A SONG OF RIZZIO TO MARY 
STUART 

Forever lies a land beyond the sea, love ; 

Say thou wilt wander there for aye with me, love ; 

Sorrow shall fly 

Beneath that sky. 
And life a softly-passing dream shall be, love ! 

Oh ! like the rippling waves upon the sand, love. 
Laughter and song shall rise in that fair land, love ; 
Oh ! wherefore wait 
In dreary state ? 
My soul's true queen shall from all hearts com- 
mand love ! 

51 



JANE AUSTEN'S GARDEN 

It is her garden, but she is not here — 

Yet does the very air seem full of her ! 

The walls, so high, have never let too near 

One alien breeze among her roses stir. 

" Not v;^hat they w^ere," they say, *' when she 

was here," 
Yet here she found delight — her eyes have seen. 
Often at dusk (for e'en loved work grows drear) 
Has not this bower to her most welcome been ? 
She came with downcast eyes, and footsteps slow. 
With the dream-people for still company ; 
Here the true types of that far day would grow. 
The young-yet Emma, or, one paler, she 
Of patient love's duress, a pictured saint, 
Anne Elliot (sweet Austen's self I know !) 
And yet how many more of fiction quaint 
Took life in this old garden ! 

Chill and low. 
To-day, a summer storm hath bent the vines 
And from the wall the blossoms pale float down 
With their old-fashioned fragrance still entwines 
Her memory with the spot that she hath known ! 



52 



A SEAPORT TOWN 

The fogs of centuries have settled down 
Upon this time-worn town ; 

Smoke, spray, and vapor, in a union drear. 
Have settled here. 

The very sea in sullen stupor lies 

Reflecting duller skies ; 
Steeples and roofs and buildings, sad and gray. 

Reeking with spray. 

Seem to reproach the earth and sky, as they 
Most mournfully might say, 

*♦ None too great ever did the heavens bless. 
And man still less !" 



CONTENT 

The days go on in measureless content. 

Peace holds the glass, and soothingly the 
sands 
Move onward till the quiet hour is spent. 

Charge me not. Time ! That I with empty 
hands 

53 



Content 

Sit in the ingle ! I may start again 

With a new, quickened heart into the strife 

Of the full field; know all the joy and pain 
That follows fast upon the active life. 

But — ere the longing rise, or feeling's stress. 
Or the strong hope, to trust, perhaps, in vain. 

Here, where fair peace seems smilingly to bless. 
Leave me a little while to dream again. 



SONNET TO THE MARCH WINDS 

Last night the March winds woke me and I went 
On their wild path with them thro' many a way 
That would escape me thro' the busy day. 
With the wild winds that have their tremor sent 
Over the graves, where I, alas, had meant 
To stand beside, to comfort and to pray : 
To make them glad — if mortal act so may ! 

They lie so lonely 'neath the chill moonlight ! 
Had I been there to-day, as full I meant, 

My prayer the softer to their slumber might 
Have sent them ! Now the day fore'er is spent. 
And all the winds sob o'er my lost intent. 

And all the winds sob out my lost " good-night !" 
54 



OF AN ELOQUENT PREACHER 

In every word he saith. 
Behold poor trampled Faith ! 
We hark to one who could 
Aspire — if he would. 

A master-mind, perplexed ! 

A spirit conscience vexed. 

The dark, now pierced ! In vain — 

He gropes in night again. 

He speaks of souls long gone : 
Le Blanc and Fenelon — 
He points where in the past 
The truth hath shone, at last ! 

Poor human minds distressed. 
By all this doubt, possessed ! 
And what of those who caught. 
Though late, the gleam they sought ? 

Oh thou, who would aright 
Seek thou, that "Kindly Light!" 
Find thou their courage bold ! 
Rest in His poor^ sad fold ! 
55 



ELLEN TERRY 

Some say she is not human — 
This strange elusive woman — 
That she's some gay enchanting elf 
From out the sea or sky ; 
But I 
Believe she's just her gracious self. 

Some ever praise the acting, 

And others, all-exacting. 

Her silences adore. But when 

She speaks her own free mind, 
I find 
She is the most attractive then. 

Another generation 
Shall list in veneration. 
As all describe her haunting art. 
And sing her merits high. 
But I 
Shall tell them of her gentle heart. 

FuLHAM, England, August 26, 1898. ' 
56 



THE SPRING SEA 

Earth has no words to say how fair 

The waves came in to-day ! 
The kingly sun upon them shone 

In a royal lover's way. 
It seemed all music centred there. 

In the rippling water's play ; 
The king above looked down in love 

Where the sparkling beauty lay ! 



ROMNEY'S WIFE 

I WILL await you ! Others have to-day. 

But I will have you sometime ! Bowed and gray 

You may be — ah ! you will be, when you come. 
Bowed with life's ev'ry storm, yet to your home — 

The home my heart shall ever keep for you — 
My straining vision brings you straight and true. 

You loved me once — you do not hate me yet — 
And I will not believe you can forget ! 

5 57 



Romney's Wife 

And I loved more in you than time can fade. 
And hence I can await you. You have said 

We shall not meet again, but oh ! we will, 
And tho' my heart be heavy, sadder still 

Shall yours be that day ! Others have to-day. 
But I shall claim you sometime ! On your way 

You will e'en miss me, for you cannot be 
To any one quite what you were to me. 

No word of mine shall call you back again. 
But you will come without it. In the pain 

And heartache you so ill could bear alone. 
Swift you will think of me, my longed-for one ! 

Then, tho' the years have never left a trace 
Of aught that drew me in your loved, loved face, 

I shall forgive the years that I have missed — 
All the long years wherein we never kissed 

Or spoke one word of loving. When you come — 
For ah ! you will — with heart no more to roam. 

Yes, others have to-day, but love can wait 
That home-returning, sad and sick and late. 

58 



THE APRIL WAVES 

If it only could last for ever ! 

The springtide of the sea. 
For I hold that its charm is never 

So deep and so grandly free. 

In a moment the eyes, far ranging. 

Run sun-bright waters o'er ; 
In the next, with April's changing, 

A lowering waste no more ! 

And again, in a mimic fury, 

A sodden sand they crash ! 
Then their April griefs they bury. 

And sink in a silken splash. 

Then they slumber for hours together. 

And weary again of their rest. 
Till we cannot (so charm they) tell whether 

Their calm or their storm is best. 



59 



A PORTRAIT * 

Beautiful Sally Reams ! 

I look at your face till it seems 

The present is slipping away. 

And the dusk of a Southern day 
Comes closing around me with all of its won- 
derful gleams. 

I know but your pictured face — 
Bright page, that no future shall trace — 
But I know, as a twice-told tale. 
That your charm could never fail. 
That you seemed to be part of the South and 
its mystical grace. 

Beautiful Sally Reams ! 

Was your heart what your image seems ? 
Did you treasure the noble in youth, 
Tho' it came of the North or the South, 

Long ago ? Was there room for the North in 
the Southern girl's dreams ? 

* A portrait brought to the North after the Civil War. 



60 



THE EARLY LOST 

[In memory of Francis Hazen.] 

Shall it be thus, the coming years 
We hailed with hope — and face with fears ? 
Shall e'en the past be seen thro' tears 
For you, Fanny ? 

Was it that Eden-forms of light 
Grew jealous of our poor earth-right. 
And called their sister-spirit bright, 
** Return, Fanny ?" 

For thought of you is thought of song. 
The light song of a heart so young 
No years had aged, tho' brief or long 
Your life, Fanny. 

Some bitterness the pen has weighed. 
To think the Reaper had not stayed 
In pity for so bright a maid — 
For you, Fanny ! 



6i 



THE HARP 

There's a harp below in the street. 
And its melody quaint and sweet 
Hath brought back the song to-day 
Of a harp that is far away. 

And again the soft light shines 
O'er a form that half reclines 
By a golden harp whose chords 
Have meaning too deep for words. 

And meaning too deep for me. 
Till I think that it should not be 
That the sorrows we might forget 
The vague, or the real regret. 

Should be sung into life again 
To the harp's vibrating pain ! 
They are past, and we would forget 
Till the harp-strings whisper " Not yet!" 



6i 



SONG TO THE LOST 

" You will return," the night's first voice is 

sighing, 
** Return, return !" the echoes long replying. 
Twilight grows dense and shadows deeper falling 
Upon a soul all sorrow-worn, are calling 

"Return! Return!" 

Where e'er you are, does never mem'ry move 

you 
To come again where once you loved to be ? 
Oh, dream you nothing of the hearts that love 

you. 
Is there not even one your soul would see ? 

" Return, return !" the night's last voice is 

singing, 
" Return, return !" the whisp'ring air is ringing 
But once again ! You cannot stay unheeding 
All nature's voice and mine forever pleading 

" Return ! Return !" 



63 



A PROMISE 

Will I forget you ? Never ! Let the morn 
Forget to follow night — let everything 

That's sweet and certain fail : yet must I mourn 
Your going while a hope divine shall sing 

Of your return — again ! 

Can I forget you, ever ? When each thought 
Of mine to you hath homage ? If my days 
Were crowned with riches, love and fame, all 
naught 
Would be their pow'r the spirit sad to raise. 
That looked for you — in vain ! 

I will forget you never ! On your way 

May all that's bright attend you ! Sorrowing 
cares 
Shall pass you by, and o'er your ev'ry-day 

Unwonted joys shall smile, the while my 
prayers 

Must bring you back, again ! 



64 



THE POET IN DESPAIR TO THE 
MUSE 

Why do I wait for you ? 
Too long false hope hath led me, and I know 
It is a doubtful pathway I would go — 
A future fair confronts me, while I stay 
To watch your light o' love shine o'er my way ; 
Till I could bid the very dawn of day, 

" Be late," for you ! 

I will not stay for you ! 
A thousand better hopes have left me while 
I dreamed of many an hour you might beguile. 
And now I have you not, and peace has flown 
Will-o'-the-wisp ! to lure the traveller on 
Till his life's way grow dim and all unknown. 

Life's way, for you ! 



65 



LOSS 

[Translation] 

Thou who wert near ! 

How can it be 

That poor dim memory — • 

Thou unto me — 
Must evermore appear? 

Strange will it be 

When thou art gone ! 
And I, poor one ! alone. 
Must live upon, 

But what thou wert to me. 

The coming years ! 
Void though they be. 
Yet shall they pass for me ! 
To-day's still misery 

May fade in tears ! 



66 



THE FOURTH OF JULY IN PARIS 

We hear them come ! 
With merry fife and drum. 
And dancing, prancing hoof 

Of dashing horses' feet. 
While many a bannered roof 

Resounds the stirring beat ! 

And love — not war. 
Brings this gay band afar 
'Neath summer sun to-day ! 

But in fair brotherhood. 
Our countrymen and they 

Who once beside them stood ! 

All honor be. 

Oh generous France, to thee 

Who late learned Freedom's truth. 

Yet lent thy gracious hand 
To aid the towering youth 

Of our immortal land ! 



67 



THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 

" I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me." — 
2 Samuel xii. 23. 

It is so quiet by the old church wall ; 

I wonder if you ever heed at all 

That loved ones come, or what sad tears shall fall ; 

You could not lie so quiet if you knew 

How many thoughts go onward still with you ! 

How 'tis but half a sorrow to be true ! 

I would not wake you from a sleep so blest : 
I know you lie upon the just One's breast — 
But — where you are, how sweet must be that 
rest ! 

A rest from which I dare not wish you free ; 
I know you shall not rise and come to me. 
That mine alone to you the path may be ! 



68 



BASSANIO: WILLIAM TERRISS 

Where's Bassanio, who taught us 
Friendship fair hath bonds of steel ? 

Where's the soldier-hero wrought us 
Loyalty or love to feel ? 

Into night hath all the lightness 

Faded ? Nay, hope, trusting dreams 

Some far clime hath new-found brightness 
Where the hero's brow still gleams. 



GENERAL CUSTER 

Said one who knew the hero once. 

How oft I think of him ! 
Tho' later lights may flare, perchance. 

None can his glory dim ! 

He was a leader, first and last. 
For action framed and nerved ; 

(My calmer path in thought was cast. 
Yet each our Union served.) 
69 



General Custer 

Full oft I watched him as I sat, 
(O'er work my head e'er bent) 

Nor ceased with use to wonder at 
Each noble lineament! 



His was a valor born within ; 

A soul that fear defied ! 
His was a gallant cause to win. 

And a dashing horse to ride ! 



How I can see him — see him yet ! 

Like a young God of War; 
Astride a steed, all hotly wet. 

And mad with smoke and roar. 



Full of the strife that filled the mind 
Of the rider brave and fair — 

And still I see how on the wind 
Floated that flaxen hair — 



Floated or fell to shoulder-length 

Neglected all, while he 
Brought a brain's wealth and body-strength 

To ride to victory ! 
70 



General Custer 

Yet had he charms of peace, as well. 
And strength of sweetness, too. 

And often on my ear there fell 
His laughter, ringing true. 

And when he smiled, to me it seemed 

A living spark of light 
Had flashed from eyes and lips, and gleamed. 

As though the latent Might — 

The forces that we know not of 

In him were clearer than 
We may oft see them rise and move 

In less God-gifted man. 



Yes ! like a meteor light he shone- 
And like the same he passed ! 

Into the darkness hath he gone — 
Glittering, to the last! 

His was a valor born within ; 

A soul that fear defied ! 
His was a gallant cause to win. 

And a dashing horse to ride ! 



71 



OF MOURNING 

Sometimes — I'd leave the whole of life to be. 

Sweet one, with thee ! 
I have one wish — to sit with the forlorn. 

Who (loved ones) mourn ! 

In their sad looks, for evermore I see 

Some thought of thee ; 
I dream they held their loved and lost. Divine, 

As I held mine ! 

So, could I take them to my heart, and say : 

"With you I pray — 
Gaunt sorrow stalks with you ! at least, to-day. 

The same our way ; 

Let me be with you, till your path is done. 
You mourn some one !" 

A little while with me the sad ones stay. 
And then — away ! 



7a 



VILLA DES ACACIAS, IN THE BOIS 
(PARIS) 

" I have been here before." — Dante Rossetti. 

I KNOW this place so well ! 

I have passed down this way — 
The faint acacia-smell 

Of this cafe 

Hath not come new to me, this summer day. 

The blossoming boughs that twine. 

Beyond that counter where 
Is ranged the red, red wine — 

All these were there. 

And nothing new I see, in coming here ! 

'Twas thro' some path of sleep. 

Unto this spot I came 
This wood — so green — so deep — 
It is the same ! 

Nothing to me is new — but its sweet name ! 



73 



AFTER LOSS 

I WENT within his room, 
I thought to cast from out my soul the gloom 
That overwhelmed the heart, and held the brain 
In darkest thrall, and in that room again 

I stood as by his tomb. 

I watched sad autumn's rain 
Come moodily against his window-pane 
Thro' his loved trees I caught the storm's dull 

tone 
And knew as surely as in grief's first moan 

That time had passed in vain. 

And vain poor hope's belief 
That time shall blunt the edge of sharpest grief. 
What tho' the fewer fall the mourner's tears. 
This weight of loss that deepens with the years ; 

No, call not this relief! 



74 



A LITTLE WHILE 

A LITTLE while she lingered but to see 

What life could be 
Within a charmed circle that she drew. 

But passed not through. 

As first she gazed, some triumph filled her eves — 

A glad surprise — 
Till something of the milder calm of thought 

Upon her wrought. 

She was a looker-on ; she could but see 

What still must be. 
And as she deeper saw, surprise again 

Turned into pain. 

Swift change alone, she marked, seemed life's 
great law ; 

Her deep eyes saw 
How sadly swift to one who giveth all 

Beyond recall. 



75 



THE ENCHANTED LAND 

" It was the isle of ' It may not be,' " 
She said, '* Where I lingered awhile. 

And all that had ever seemed sweet to me 
I found on that charmed isle ! 

" Never loomed nature so dreamily fair. 

Never such sunlights set ; 
Never such starlights rose as there 

In the land I cannot forget ! 

" Unto the isle of * It may not be' 

I had gone with a heart aglow. 
And hope and pleasure and song for me 

Seemed ever to rise and flow 

'* In sweet accord with the winds and waves 
That rose round that isle so free ; 

There were joys I had dreamed the Eden saves 
In the isle of * It may not be' ! 

** Too brief was my stay in a land so fair. 
Where joy thrilled in every breath. 

For the waters changed as I sailed, and where 
The sea rose the shades seemed death. 
76 



The Enchanted Land 

*' The pale mists followed me from the shore. 
And the low waves moaned to me, 

You are leaving your life for evermore 
In the land of ' It may not be' 



,> !>J 



THE TRUE 

Tho' the fancy may stray 
To the brilliant and gay. 
However their glitter throw round us its strong 
dazzling hue. 

Not for long they beguile ; 
We but heed them awhile. 
And our hearts shall come back to the good and 
the true ! 

Fair feature and form 
The senses may storm ; 
Enchantments like these shall delight us the 
while they are new. 

But the lure shall not last — 
And the glamour once past. 
Our hearts shall come back to the good and the 
true. 

77 



ON A PORTRAIT OF LINCOLN 

If looks could speak, thy sad face would 

Tell all the noble life 

Of truth dethroning strife — 
Of tyrant error slain, thou great and good ! 

Thy lot redeemer-like ; thy heav'n-led hand 
Could wrest the growing shame 
Of thy young country's name 

And set bright freedom's halo on thy land ! 



THE SACRED PROMISE 

When the heart shall look beyond its present 
sorrow, 

Then Faith, so blest. 
Shall say, " Weep not, all shall be peace to- 
morrow 

For thy beloved ; at rest. 
Behold the promise of the Lord, 
The sacred promise of His word : 
When thy loved on earth shall turn and leave 
thee, 

78 



The Sacred Promise 

Then my radiant angels shall receive thee. 
In their arms shall angels onward bear thee. 
That no evil ever may come near thee !" 

Then lift thine eyes, behold a king immortal. 

Whose name is Love ; 
A light to lead thee thro' the shaded portal 

To His fair throne above. 

Thine is no victory, O grave, 
A king hath given his Son to save ! 
When thy loved on earth shall turn and leave 

thee 
Then my radiant angels shall receive thee. 
In their arms shall angels onward bear thee. 
That no evil ever may come near thee ! 



A POET'S SACRIFICE 

Young Emma was a cultured maid of aspiration 

high; 
'Tis said the stars smiled at her birth and 

twinkled in the sky. 
The fairies to her christening came, a brilliant, 

glitt'ring throng ; 
And no one missed (among that crowd) the 

little sprite called Song ! 
79 



A Poet's Sacrifice 

In after years fair Emma's heart held one absorb- 
ing thought 

As, to accomplish her great "aim," both day 
and night she wrought. 

** Oh, I must touch some glowing theme (this 
was her rev'rie fond) ; 

The slumb'ring ages shall awake beneath my 
magic wand !" 



Thus many ballads she composed, and endless 

dramas, too ; 
While sonnets by the score she wrote ; young 

Emima grew so blue ! 
Ethereal-hued her senses, too, for at the feast's 

fair shrine 
Young Emma sat and pondered thus amid the 

courses nine : 



" I'll not partake, poor Byron said, it moved 

him to disgust. 
To see angelic creatures eat ; how sad to think 

we must ! 
I would that I were far away from all this vulgar 

din ; 
I really think to-morrow morn an epic I'll 

begin." 

80 



A Poet's Sacrifice 

As thus she mused her roving eye fell on the 

table good ; 
** Did Byron really think," she said, ** that we 

should have no food ? 
'Tis plain he overstretched the point, I cannot 

hungry stay" ; 
Fair Emma then began to eat ; ye muses, steal 

away ; 



Henceforth by lone Castilian spring your weary 
vigil keep. 

And you, ye shades of vanished song, in saddest 
exile weep. 

Alas ! that night the parents fond, the friends 
stood 'round a bed 

Of one in throes of agony, of one who over- 
fed. 



Not ** flow of soul" nor " reason's feast" had 

e'er so wrought her brain. 
It seemed the outraged muses laughed and 

mocked her in her pain. 
With impish glee they filled the room, the 

while her heart did quake, 
Quoth one, " I am that * rosy dawn' whose 

name you often take." 
8i 



A Poet's Sacrifice 

And yet another cried, ** Behold ! for oft you' ve 

called on me 
Before you now, in deep disgust, the shade of 

Sappho see !" 
At last young Emma strove no more, she called 

her parents dear. 
And said, ** Now mark, in sympathy, and my 

last wishes hear ; 

** I ask that you shall burn my odes, my ballads, 

sonnets, too. 
And feed my drama to the goat, and now, * kind 

friends,' adieu !" 
And thus the future's priestess passed, poor 

maid, so erudite. 
Some other hand must, later on, the nation's 

epic write. 



A ROW ON THE AVON 

In the pure light that falls half-way 
Between the dusk and light of day, 
I walked once more thro' all the place, 
The Master's light shall ever grace : 
A softened glamor on it lay — 
The bower of young Anne Hathaway. 



A Row on the Avon 

I saw the shadows deeper grow. 
And turned away, tho' loth to go ; 
For there in that old garden grew 
All the flowers Shakespeare knew, 
Thyme and Rosemary and Rue ! 

Yet out thro' clover-scented air. 
In thick'ning twilight passed I where 
The fair-famed Avon stilly flowed — 
Where oft, full oft, the lovers rowed. 
As to and fro I saw there float, 
I freed a restless little boat : 
How long I rowed I may not know. 
So sweet-deceptive is the glow. 
Of their late English twilight ! Still, 
Wan light to moonlight merged, until 
The two were one. Soft sounds I heard 
From v/here the oar had slightly stirred 
The water ; later 'twas I caught 
A sound of rustling wings, I thought! 
But yet, as all seemed calmly clear, 
I banished far the idle fear. 
And on the still oars rested. Then 
The sounds unknown awoke again — 
And straining all the shadow through 
I saw two swans of snowy hue 
Upon the waters grandly float. 
Following close the little boat ! 
83 



NOV 4 1898 



